Bag of Depravity
patreon
Professor Potter: Chapter 20
🕑 Added 2025-03-21 08:35:48 +0000 UTCChapter 20
Proof
Dumbledore craned his neck and shielded his eyes. With wisps of flame escaping its jaws, the Hungarian Horntail glared back. Not at Dumbledore, exactly, but at the scrawny fourteen-year-old Harry Potter in front of it. Faced with his past self, Harry felt slightly let down by how close he looked to pissing himself. He remembered looking a lot more heroic.
“I must say, it feels far more threatening standing here than in the judges booth,” Dumbledore said. “I don’t recall the dragons being nearly this large.”
“Well, that was the point, wasn’t it?” Harry asked. “Throw some kids into the thick of it, gather up a big crowd, and everyone has a great time. Except the kids.”
“I recall you saying that you won this task.”
“Joint with Krum. You’re about to see how. I guess it was fun after the fact, but during…”
Harry trailed off. His Firebolt had just zipped into the stadium, nestling in his younger self’s hand. As he took off through the air, the little Harry quickly developed a broad, almost insane grin.
“I can see how little you enjoyed it,” Dumbledore said sagely. “Not one bit. Clearly.”
Little Harry corkscrewed past a gout of flames that would’ve cooked him more than a steak left in Hagrid’s hands.
“I guess it wasn’t all bad,” Harry said, his lips twitching wryly.
He and Dumbledore watched the rest of the first task and the entirety of the second one. When Harry insisted on bringing Gabrielle Delacour back from the bottom of the lake, Dumbledore patted the mature Harry’s shoulder.
“Headmaster?” Harry asked.
“That was a fine thing to do,” said Dumbledore. “You deserve to be told as much.”
Harry nodded, feeling a little flustered and not having much of an answer. “Did this happen to Neville, too?”
“He did the same,” Dumbledore confirmed. “So far, most things are the same. Ah, he did have a different approach for the dragon, though. A few well-aimed charms combined with a lovely transfiguration he made in his own image.”
“Advanced magic,” Harry noted.
“Augusta has spared nothing when it comes to tutors.” Suddenly, Dumbledore chuckled, looking at something in the memory. “It seems I’m not the first to acknowledge your good deed.”
Young Harry had just received a very wet kiss on the cheek by a half-hysterical Fleur Delacour. Observing the scene, Harry couldn’t help but shake his head. His past self was blushing, but not half as hard as Ron was after getting a smooch of his own from the Beauxbatons champion. For the first time, Harry noticed another woman coming toward them. She had Fleur and Gabrielle’s features, just aged up. If anything she was more beautiful, or at least carried more of the veela’s trademark Allure. She reached Gabrielle and wrapped the sopping girl in a tight hug. It was Fleur’s mother… Appoline, if Harry wasn’t mistaken. He met her once at Bill and Fleur’s wedding, but never again.
Not long after, he and Dumbledore returned from the Pensieve. The clock in Dumbledore’s office read eleven-thirty. It was totally dark outside the windows.
So far, they hadn’t learned much from these Pensieve sessions, but Dumbledore insisted that the groundwork was as important as studying the war. By going through Harry’s adventures year-by-year, they could see the small ways his timeline differed from this one, learning what info would and wouldn’t be applicable.
Soon, things would get more serious. The next session would cover the third task. Harry didn’t repress any of his memories, but if there was one that he wasn’t looking forward to reliving…
“I’ve been asked by a few acquaintances about my new hire,” Dumbledore said. “Most of them are curious where another Potter has popped up from.”
“James called me his cousin when he was getting me off the hook with Amelia Bones. Probably best to use that excuse.”
“A good choice,” Dumbledore said. “But it relies on James’s cooperation. Have you thought about approaching him?”
The headmaster said it without any judgement, but Harry couldn’t help wincing like he’d failed a test.
“Thought about it? Sure. Tons. But what do I even say? His opinion of me is on the floor, and it’s not like he’d believe me if I told him the truth.”
“I did.”
“With all due respect, Sir, I don’t think anything about you can be taken as the norm.”
“Perhaps you’re correct— though I think my taste in sweets, at least, is perfectly conventional. Everyone loves a lemon drop. All I mean, Harry, is that you shouldn’t assume failure without trying.”
“He’s got a logical mind,” Harry said. “He’s an Auror, right?”
“Ex-Auror,” Dumbledore said.
“He’ll need proof then. I know how they work. But unless I scrounge up Veritaserum for him to give me, my word isn’t good enough.”
Dumbledore stroked his beard. To fuel his brain, he popped a ‘perfectly-conventional’ lemon drop into his mouth, sucking the candy down.
“How badly do you want to convince him?” he asked.
“If you have a way, I’ll do it,” Harry said.
His feelings were in an ugly knot about the whole thing. How do you talk to the father you never knew, who’s now your age, who hardly got to meet you from his perspective? It was like they were family and strangers at the same time. But Harry knew that if he didn’t make an effort, and something tore this chance away from him, he’d regret it for the rest of his life.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Dumbledore said. “Can I expect you again on Friday?”
Harry agreed to be there in order delve into the rest of his fourth year. As he excused himself, descending the steps from Dumbledore’s office, he was already preparing himself for the scene he would have to relive.
O-O-O
At breakfast the next morning, on the third day of the school year, Dolores Umbridge was in a good mood. You could tell because she was humming a tune as she smeared an inhumane amount of butter on her toast. She was about as musically gifted as she was pleasant to look at.
“Professor Flitwick,” Umbridge said, “I heard about your classes from a couple of concerned students. They said — and these are their words of course, not mine — that they didn’t even open their textbooks on the first day. You just gave them a spell and let them start casting away.”
“That’s right!” Flitwick squeaked. “Charms are all about doing! If you bore students with too much theory—”
“Textbooks are the backbone of all learning,” Umbridge said sweetly. “Although it’s good to believe in yourself, sometimes it’s better to fall back on the teachings of real experts.”
Pomona Sprout’s spoon slipped from her fingers. If it was any of the other senior staff members, Umbridge might have pushed the line too far. Flitwick, however, was soft-hearted and patient enough to smile at her.
“I know the authors of the books I use personally!” he said. “We exchange notes regularly. If I didn’t trust their work, I wouldn’t use it in my classroom. But there’s a time and place for—”
“Time and place, yes,” Umbridge said. “I have full confidence that you’ll find plenty of time and lots of places for those books going forward.”
Her teeth crunched into her toast, spraying crumbs onto her plate. Umbridge’s tips didn’t stop there. She asked if Sinistra ever considered holding her classes earlier, implied that Professor Sprout housed too many dangerous plants in her greenhouse, and told everyone that they ought to take notes from Binns, of all professors— the ghost that was as boring as the grave in his History of Magic lessons.
“Now, Mister Potter—”
“You’re looking lovely today, Professor Umbridge!” Harry said.
Her shock at being interrupted faded into a smug smile. She pushed up a few of her curls. “That’s very kind of you!” she said.
Harry nodded. “Your hair is especially curly today. I know the signs of a Muggle hair-curler when I see one.”
Umbridge lost her smile.
“This is all the work of charms!” Umbridge said with a nervous laugh.
“No need to be shy,” Harry said. “I’ve seen all kinds of hair— Muggle hair, witch hair, troll hair… The signs are all there.”
“You’re misreading them!”
Umbridge blinked, hastily collecting herself.
“I mean, you must be mistaken Dear,” she said with an abhorrent girly giggle.
“Oh. Of course,” Harry said. He leaned around Septima Vector, who was sitting between them, and whispered, “Your haircare secret is safe with me, Professor Umbridge.”
The fact that his whisper was just loud enough for everyone around to hear was purely coincidental. When Harry followed it up with an exaggerated wink, Umbridge excused herself from the staff table, waddling angrily back to her classroom.
When Harry returned to his food, he found himself greeted with appreciative looks from the rest of the staff. Surprisingly, that even included Snape. Chuckling, Harry finished his meal in peace.
The toad could dish out abuse, but she was horrible at taking it. Dumbledore might not be able to do anything about her, but Harry was just a Muggle Studies professor. Not only could she not tell if he was genuinely targeting her, she had nothing to use against him. What was she going to do, get another Educational Decree?
O-O-O
“Ahem Ahem! Attention, everyone!”
The very next morning, Harry and the rest of the staff watched on in befuddlement as Umbridge gathered the students’ attention. There was a large parchment in her hands with a very official stamp in the corner.
“Our esteemed Minister has come through for us once again in a time of need. I hold in my hands Educational Decree Number Twenty-Three! To protect the hair health of young witches everywhere, the Ministry of Magic hereby outlaws the use and possession of any Muggle hair implements within Hogwarts’ halls. If you are in violation of this law, please destroy the offending implements or turn them in to Argus Filch at the earliest convenience.”
Umbridge sat down to a roar from students, particularly the female students from Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff. Umbridge looked mightily proud, wasting no time in looking gloatingly at Harry.
Harry, however, had already reached out, giving her shoulder a pitying pat.
“My condolences for your loss,” he said.
Umbridge’s eye developed a severe twitch. It was only the presence of so many other people that stopped her from crumpling her copy of Educational Decree Twenty-Three right there at the table.
When he left the Great Hall and could stop holding it in, Harry laughed himself silly for five minutes straight.
O-O-O
“Harry! Harry!”
Harry looked over his shoulder, tucking the books he was carrying underneath his arm. A waving hand and bouncing brown was coming toward him. When she had you in her sights, Hermione was surprisingly fast. Harry was slightly surprised to see she wasn’t alone, either.
“Hermione!” he said. “Can I help you with something? Thank you, by the way, for your help over the summer. Handling those first years by yourself was going above and beyond.”
Hermione beamed at the praise. “It was nothing, Professor! Your lecture was amazing! When I took Muggle Studies in my Third Year, Professor Burbage was alright, but she never presented things the way you did!”
“I’m glad you gave the topic another chance,” Harry said. “And this is… Neville, right?”
Neville looked taken aback for a moment. He clearly wasn’t used to anyone seemingly struggling to recall his name.
“Er, yeah, that’s right Professor,” he said. “Neville Longbottom.”
“Good to have you in my class, Mr. Longbottom. Are you related to Augusta?”
“You know Gran?” Neville asked.
“We met in passing at a meeting.”
The meaning sunk in for both Neville and Hermione. Hermione gave him a nudge in the side that looked suspiciously like a way of saying, ‘I told you so!’
“That’s good to know, Professor,” Neville said.
Harry smiled.
“How are the two of you liking your classes so far?” he asked. “Any of them giving you trouble? I’ve heard that Defense has been tough.”
“It’s not so bad,” Hermione said. “Professor Umbridge just has us read from the book. It’s quite easy, really.”
“If you have any trouble with her, come and see me,” Harry said. “I’m sure I can find a way to do something.”
That was one grudge he couldn’t completely let go of even into his adult years. Harry understood that McGonagall and Dumbledore had their hands tied… but they could’ve done something. He had felt completely alone in his fifth year, like every adult in his life was turning their back and cutting him off. If a single professor had reached out to help with Umbridge, that could’ve made the difference. Maybe he wouldn’t have been so emotional, rushing to the Ministry without any kind of planning—
“What kind of trouble?” Neville asked.
He tilted his head, his brown eyes confused. Suddenly, Harry felt a bit awkward.
“You know,” Harry said, “detentions for speaking out, arguing with her about You Know Who, that kind of thing…”
“But McGonagall told me not to do that,” Neville said.
“And you listened?”
“Why wouldn’t I? She’s right. Umbridge just wants a rise out of me. If I don’t give it to her, she can’t actually do anything to me, can she?”
“Right. Right, that… That makes a lot of sense.”
Harry scratched the back of his head. With this one short interaction, he realized that he’d been making a serious mistake.
Ever since he arrived here, he heard story after story about Neville’s life following the same path as his own. There were minor differences of course, but mostly it was like he was hearing about some copy of himself. Without even meaning to, at some point, Harry had started thinking of Neville as a version of him with a different name. Not only was that unfair, it was untrue.
Neville Longbottom’s scar was in a different place. His hair and eyes were brown, not black and green. He grew up with his grandmother, raised as a pureblood, never having visited Little Whinging or Privet Drive. When a Ministry pawn arrived at Hogwarts to get under his skin, he kept his temper under control even though he knew he was right.
“Sorry,” Harry said suddenly.
“For what, Professor?” Neville asked.
“I don’t think I was being fair to you. Good work keeping your cool, Mr. Longbottom. Some people really can’t manage that… But the offer is still open. If you ever need help, with Umbridge or otherwise, and you don’t have anyone to turn to, my door is open.”
“I’ll keep that in mind Sir,” Neville said politely.
“Good, good. I’ll see you in class, Neville. Hermione.”
He waved goodbye to them. Checking the time, he quickened his pace to avoid being late to the lecture for class with his third years.
Not the best first impression, as far as those went, but it taught Harry something important that he wouldn't forget. For everything that he knew about this world, there were a surprising amount of things he didn't. At least Neville wasn’t in the same trouble Harry had been in during his fourth year. With luck, perhaps Umbridge’s Blood Quill’s wouldn’t see any use.
Remembering her face at breakfast that morning, Harry chuckled softly. Unless she pulled out an Educational Decree that let her put other teachers in detention, it wasn’t impossible that those damn quills would stay locked in her drawer. They better.
For her sake.
O-O-O
The routine of classes swept Harry up surprisingly quickly. Once the first lesson was out of the way, the rest felt far less nerve wracking. It was only his fifth year class he started with that was so full of familiar faces. Luna Lovegood was in the fourth year class, while his seventh year class had the Weasley twins and Lee Jordan. It almost brought a tear to Harry’s eye the first time he saw the twins together and laughing, but he caught himself. That would’ve been a hell of a way to greet a class for the first time, bawling his eyes out for no reason.
Soon enough it was Friday, and he found himself climbing the stairs to Dumbledore’s office once again. He’d steeled himself for this. The third task itself wasn’t so bad, but what followed had haunted Harry for years. Cedric Diggory’s death came out of nowhere. No matter how many people Harry saved after that, he never forgot it. A boy with everything going for him died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and no other reason. A tragedy.
Harry wouldn't run from the past though. He’d show Dumbledore everything, if that was what it took to save even a single extra life.
“Good evening Professor,” Harry said as he entered the office. “Ready to watch Voldemort’s triumphant return?”
“Quite ready,” Dumbledore said. “Shall we?”
Dumbledore gestured at himself, at Harry, and at the man sitting across from him— James Potter.
A brief moment of confusion passed as Harry realized what this was. He said he had no proof of his identity, but that wasn’t true. It was all just stored inside his head. By the time he left the office tonight, James Potter would know who Harry was.
He wasn’t sure how the realization made him feel. But just like with facing these memories, Harry refused to back down now.
He swept his arm toward the Pensieve. “After you, Professor.”
Comments
Alkole
I'm still sad Lily didn't survive in this world😭
